Page 95 of Men in Shorts

“I didn’t know if you wanted milk or sugar,” he said on his way to the bed, “so I brought both.”

“Cheers, mate.” Colin took the tray from him and set it upon Andrew’s lap.

Evan stepped back. “I saw Dermot near the tea station. He said there’ll be a light breakfast served at ten.”

“Good. That should give everyone a bit of a lie-in.” Andrew adjusted the pillows behind himself, avoiding Evan’s eyes. “Sleep well.”

Evan took the hint and retreated. Like most of the Warriors, he’d visited during Colin’s convalescence. This last month he’d even conferred with Andrew on the best supplements for Colin and convinced the stubborn striker to take his vitamins so he could reach match fitness sooner. Though Andrew was grateful to Evan, he always felt chilled by his incisive gaze.

Colin got up from the bed and began to undress. He undid the top buttons of his shirt, then peeled it off, yanking the vest with it. His abdomen still bore the arcing pink scar from his first, most invasive surgery, but the ones from the laparoscopies had faded. The scar from the stab wound remained, a thick, colorless line that shifted as he moved.

Andrew felt a pang in his own side, as if he’d been the one knifed. He adjusted his posture to dispel the phantom pain, then reached for his tea to see if it had steeped long enough. It hadn’t, but he didn’t care. His nerves needed calming now.

He lifted the lid of the sugar bowl and froze at the sight of a small folded note atop the fine white grains. The outside fold bore his name written in pencil.

What the?—

“You know what I hate about this castle?” Colin reached into the wardrobe. “It’s too drafty to sleep naked.”

Andrew snatched the note from the sugar bowl and pulled it into his lap. “Is that all you hate about this place? The draftiness?”

“That and the fact Dunleven represents everything wrong with this country.”

While Colin slipped into a pair of blue-and-gray-plaid sleep trousers, banging on about land reforms and the inherent injustice of the class system, Andrew waited for his chance. The moment Colin’s head disappeared into a long-sleeved Woodstoun Warriors T-shirt, Andrew quickly unfolded the note. At the bottom was Evan’s name and phone number.

I think I know what you’re going through. Let me know if you want to talk.

* * *

“How didyou know I took sugar in my tea?” Andrew asked when Evan picked up the phone Sunday morning.

A hesitant cough came from the other end of the line. “Who’s this?”

“You know who.” Hearing nothing, he added, “It’s Andrew Sunderland.”

“Ah. How are you?”

“Fine.” Never had one word felt such a lie. Standing in the hallway of his flat, Andrew glanced at the door to the bathroom, where Colin was showering and singing. Ever since they’d returned from Dunleven Castle, Andrew had been on edge. He’d tripled his yoga and meditation practice, hoping to find relief in his old routines, but the quieter he became on the outside, the louder the panic-static in his head grew.

Now he was startling at the slightest sounds, triple-checking the front door locks, and waking at three a.m to fret about everything from dwindling polar ice caps to the state of his home-brewed kombucha. This morning he’d even snapped at Colin for placing the cutlery “the wrong way” in the dish drainer.

Colin had shown superhuman patience with Andrew’s irritability (a skill he said he’d learned having a mother with bipolar disorder). But the distance between them was widening. After a fourth straight sleep-starved night, Andrew was finally desperate enough to reach out to a near stranger.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Evan said.

“You could’ve texted or phoned me”—Andrew’s voice felt as sharp in his throat as it sounded in his ears—“instead of squirreling away a note as though we’re on a scavenger hunt. What if I took my tea without sugar? I’d never have found your little stealth missive.”

“Sorry for alarming you,” Evan said. “I wanted to be discreet, and I didn’t have your phone number.”

“You could’ve asked Colin for it.”

“Would you have preferred that?”

“Of course not! Then he would know—” Andrew cut himself off and clutched at his hair. “Forget it. Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Evan said. “Look, whatever you’re going through, Colin will understand. He’s suffered in silence and has the scars to prove it—and I don’t mean from the surgery.”

Andrew slumped back against the wall. “So you know about Colin’s cutting.”

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